Pucked: Pucked Over Part 40

NYT and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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PUCKED SERIES.

Pucked (Pucked #1) Pucked Up (Pucked #2) Pucked Over (Pucked #3) THE CLIPPED WINGS SERIES.

Cupcakes and Ink Clipped Wings Between the Cracks Inked Armor Cracks in the Armor STANDALONE NOVELS.

The Librarian Principle Read on for excerpts from Helena Hunting's PUCKED and PUCKED Up PUCKED Excerpt

Chapter 1.

WTF MAKES VIOLENCE SO HOT?.

VIOLET.

The team's arrival is closely followed by a stampede of puck bunnies. I'm surrounded by scantily clad, too-warm bodies, and high-pitched chatter. While Buck regales Sidney with the finer details of the game-as if he wasn't there-I seek out the red EXIT sign. Rooting around in my bag, I find my smokes and make my move toward the beacon of temporary freedom, excited for my reprieve from social discomfort. Buck notices my attempted escape and grabs my arm.

"Where you going?" Buck shouts.

I hold up the pack of smokes; I'd have to yell in order for him to hear me otherwise.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. "You really shouldn't smoke. It's bad for your health."

I'm irritated by the attention he's drawing to us and my fake bad habit, so I fire off an insult. "So are venereal diseases. You don't hear me lecturing you on your whoriness."

He ignores the comment and drags me to his team's table. It's covered in heaping plates of food, which the guys inhale at an unprecedented rate. Half-dressed women flit around like fruit flies near wine.

Seeing as I'm here, I'll try and make good on Charlene's request. All I need to do is figure out who Westing-what's-his-face is so I can snap a pic, feign a headache, and get out of here.

I find an empty seat; the chairs on either side of me are vacant, aside from a jacket carelessly tossed across the one on my right.

A random chick snags Buck before I can ask after Charlene's crush. The smile slapped across his face might look friendly, but I've been around him long enough to know better. I enjoy his growing frustration as she snaps selfie after selfie. When she grabs his junk, I take pity on him.

"Hey, beefcake, enough with the soft-p.o.r.n photo shoot. Grab a chair!"

Both his head and the girl's snap in my direction, as well as those of half the team. I may have raised my voice too much. With the way Buck is smiling, I must be the color of a tomato. His relief and the girl's incredulity are rather satisfying, so the awkwardness is worth it. The s.l.u.t-bag mumbles something, and Buck grows grim. "That's my sister."

Her expression turns from irritation to discomfort; she apologizes and teeters off on her outrageous heels.

Buck drops into the seat beside mine, throwing his arm across my chair. "Thanks for the save. I thought she was gonna whip my d.i.c.k out right there."

I scoff. "Whatever. Your micro-w.a.n.g is barely visible to the naked eye. Besides, I didn't want to listen to you whine about a herpes flare-up."

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as one of Buck's teammates takes the seat beside me. I hope he didn't hear me slagging Buck's doodle.

I glance at him in time for a set of b.o.o.bs to practically smack me in the face as a waitress places a drink in front of him. It looks like milk. I give him the side-eye as she moves away. The guy sitting to his right asks him a question, drawing his attention away from me.

I recognize him from the time-out box: Waters. Holy s.h.i.+tb.a.l.l.s, is he ever hot. His dark hair is cut short, and he's got some wicked scruff going on. Even with the beard growth, I can tell he's been blessed with one of those rugged jawlines.

Nerves, embarra.s.sment, and Waters' hotness have a c.u.mulative effect, making me sweaty. I pull my sweater over my head, not accounting for static, and my T-s.h.i.+rt sticks to the woolly outer-layer. Face covered with fabric, I scramble to pull the s.h.i.+rt into place. The silence at the table is telling. Once I wrestle free of the sweater, I'm met with a number of wide eyes focused on my chest. I look down. Right. My bra is visible through the pale pink cotton, and now everyone at this table, including Buck, has seen it unfiltered by the s.h.i.+rt.

Buck leans in and whispers, "Put the sweater back on."

I play dumb. "Why?"

"Everyone can see-" He motions toward my chest without looking.

I wave him off. "It's not that obvious." It's totally that obvious.

He shoots me one of his glares. It's meant to be threatening, but it makes him look constipated. I leave the sweater off to irritate him. It's effective. His face turns an interesting shade of red.

"I need another beer." He slams his mug on the table and eyes me as he gets up and goes to the bar, despite the half-full pitcher of beer on the table.

I'm about to put the sweater on again when Waters turns to me.

"Hi, I'm Alex." He's all pretty smile and white teeth. They're probably fake. Those eyes are something else, though, even if he is sporting the makings of a black eye. I try hard not to look directly at him, afraid I'll be ensnared by his rugged, handsome face.

"I'm Violet."

"I didn't realize b.u.t.terson had a sister."

Even his voice is familiar, satin smooth and deep. He takes a sip of his drink, leaving behind a milk mustache he quickly wipes away. It's then I realize where I recognize him from: the milk advertis.e.m.e.nts. Sweet Lord, I've been jilling off to him. My mortification reaches new heights, causing me to say something more insane than usual.

"I'm his stepsister. He likes to keep me a secret since he wants to go all Ophelia on my a.s.s." My eyes widen at my terrible joke. Though, if he's anything like Buck, he won't get the reference.

"b.u.t.terson would make a c.r.a.p nun, eh?"

I swear he's made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct eye contact. Or I try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face, so that's a challenge.

Normally, I'd be put out by his blatant ogling, but I've asked for it with the sheer s.h.i.+rt and the ostentatious bra.

I further my own embarra.s.sment and his by cupping my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and squeezing. "They're nice for real ones, huh?"

His eyes shoot to mine. Busted.

"I uh-I didn't mean to-I wasn't-"

This is one of the most entertaining interactions I've had with a member of the opposite s.e.x in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.

Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it's abundantly clear she's not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His arm is like a rock. "Check out Buck's friend."

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Cooter-flasher leans forward and gives our table an even better view.

"Is that-am I looking at her beaver?"

Mid-swig, I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. After I recover, I ask jokingly, "'Beaver'? Are you Canadian or something?"

Those vibrant eyes move to mine. G.o.d, he's awfully pretty. And close. He's really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brus.h.i.+ng mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant-whatever it is, he smells yummy.

He's silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it's because I'm staring. Or the question may have stumped him.

My experiences with Buck-and the one hockey player I dated previously-have led me to the a.s.sertion that hockey players aren't notoriously intelligent. I'm aware this isn't a universal truth. But Buck certainly reinforces my perceived stereotype: he's definitely not a rocket scientist. He's not even a rocket scientist's a.s.sistant. However, I'm almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I'm intrigued.

"Yeah, I'm Canadian."

"Does everyone in Canada call p.u.s.s.ies beavers? Like the Brits call them fannies?" I can't believe I ask him this. I'm barely buzzed; otherwise, I'd blame it on drunkenness.

He blinks a few times. "Did you say 'p.u.s.s.y'?"

It's possible his helmet wasn't up to code and he sustained a head injury during the fight. There's a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His nose is crooked with a decent b.u.mp from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. It's not ugly, though. It's s.e.xy, in an I-f.u.c.k-people-up way.

"No, I said 'p.u.s.s.ies,' plural, as in more than one." I'm making a complete a.s.s out of myself.

To avoid saying something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the c.r.a.p coming out of my mouth, I don't need to add any fuel to that fire.

Buck grabs my arm as I pa.s.s him. "Hey, what's with you and Waters?"

Alex is shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he's leaving. Too bad; he was fun to talk to and nice to look at.

I sigh with irritation. "It's common courtesy to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you, or did you miss the rules of social etiquette in kindergarten?"

"Rules of what?"

"Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? Ignore him? I was being polite." And Alex is entertaining.

"Yeah, well, I don't know these guys that well yet and he's got a rep. Be careful who you get friendly with."

"I wasn't giving him a handy under the table. We were talking. I'm going for a smoke."

Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature has dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater. Finding my smokes, I pop one between my lips and search for my lighter. I can't find it anywhere.

"Need a light?" I pull my head out of my purse to find Waters holding a pack of matches.

"Are you following me?"

He shrugs and gives me a grin that could obliterate my panties. If I were dumb enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way. I'm not. Mostly.

"I thought you might like some company." He flips open the matchbook and tears one free.

I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match and curves his palm to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning orange as I take a shallow drag and cough.

"s.h.i.+t!" Tears spring to my eye as I eye toke the smoke. Swearing like a sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.

"You've got a dirty mouth, eh?"

"Only when I try and smoke with my eyeball," I say between coughs.

Alex tosses the matches on a table and pats my back until I stop hacking up a lung. "b.u.t.terson doesn't seem too happy."

Through the window I spot Buck and the Beave. She's not pulling the selfie business, so he doesn't seem to mind her hanging off his arm while he glares in our direction. He's being a colossal douche tonight.

"Screw Buck." I take a fake drag of my cigarette.

Dimples appear in Alex's cheeks as I exhale a cloud of smoke and choke back another cough.

"Do you even smoke?"

I debate lying and decide against it. "Not really. I do it as a way to escape awkward social situations."

"So you came out here to get away from me?"

"Not you in particular."

His tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. He's got a nice mouth, even with the split in the corner. Remembering the way he took out the Atlanta guy makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as he is.

He's looking at me expectantly. Dammit. He must have asked a question. My mind is wandering like a squirrel on Red Bull.

"Sorry, what?" I flick the ash on my cigarette.

"You were reading during the game-what book?" He sounds genuinely curious and a little offended.

"Tom Jones. I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday."